


You're Cool On The Internet, At Least

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:12:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: Look, Clarke will not dwell on this. She will not get flustered just because a possibly cute guy on Facebook apparently shares her views on what constitutes a terrible person.Ten minutes later, her phone gives a short, irritated buzz; startling her enough that she jumps.Biting at the inside of her cheek, she allows herself a quick peek.Friend request from Bellamy Blake.Clarke has no idea how she manages to develop a crush on a guy who won’t stop fighting everyone on Facebook, but here they are.(Or: Clarke meets Bellamy on Facebook. They hit it off.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, a good 40% of this fic is like, Clarke being awkward about how cute Bellamy is, which is something I can really relate to.

_____________________

Facebook remains one of those things that Clarke appreciates in theory and theory  _ only.  _

It’s much like weekly exercise routines, she supposes, or putting kale on everything. Realistically? It’s just not all that ideal. Her methods of coping at this point involve limiting her usage as much as possible, and or only logging on if she’s in the mood to pick fights with a distinct circle of close-minded relatives and acquaintances.

Still, it’s hard not to notice a pattern emerging despite her efforts to stay off Facebook completely.

The first time she notices him, it’s because Octavia Blake uploaded her spring break photos.

Now, she and Octavia aren’t exactly  _ close,  _ per se. They know each other in a vague, roundabout sort of way where they’ve met each other once at Raven’s birthday party and had a three minute conversation before adding each other on the requisite social media platforms. Any sort of interaction that followed after is mostly of the silent variety, which basically means liking each other’s posts without further comment.

So she doesn’t really think much of it when she comes across Octavia’s album on her timeline- just likes it and continues scrolling. There’s nothing remotely notable about the thumbnails anyway, except maybe the fact that she’s sky-diving out of a plane. (Which isn’t exactly  _ surprising  _ for Octavia.)

Then she hits the comments section, and  _ yeah _ , it’s definitely note-worthy.

The first few comments are basically just variations of the same thing: insisting Octavia take down the photos because she’s in a bikini. There’s a lot of talk about what is considered appropriate swimwear and words like ‘cheap’ and ‘scantily dressed’ thrown around, which pisses her off enough as it is.

It gets worse when they start throwing around  _ names,  _ though. Nothing new, really, the usual variation of  _ slut  _ and  _ ho  _ and stuff you find scrawled in public bathrooms, but it still sets her on edge anyway, teeth grinding together with the effort of staying quiet as she scrolls further down the list.

She’s preparing a scathing response on Octavia’s behalf when her notifications bar  _ pings,  _ a new comment appearing at the bottom of the thread.

 

**Bellamy Blake:** The double standards and hypocrisy around this entire fucking matter is real. Y’know, I didn’t see  _ any  _ of you bat an eyelid when I posted half-naked photos of myself on the beach, but somehow it’s not okay when it’s Octavia? Jesus. Women’s sex lives and their sexuality are NONE of our business, folks. If we’re arguing by the same line of logic, I wouldn’t be subjected to photos of Uncle Ted’s gut whilst he’s sunbathing considering it’s Trashy and Indecent. Shut up and sit down. Your sexism is showing.

 

It’s a nice summary of everything she wanted to say, really, with the addition of some pretty choice digs. She’ll admit that she’s grudgingly impressed. Carefully, she hovers her mouse over his name, clicks on it after a moment’s hesitation. 

The profile loads to reveal bronzed skin and freckles and dark, messy hair; face half-hidden behind a book and thick black rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. His about page is scant, to say the least, but it’s easy to deduce that he’s Octavia’s older brother and is currently working as a history professor over at one of the local colleges.

His wall is a lot more interesting- a combination of his angry commentary on several articles shared by various news sites and  _ actual  _ updates on his life. A lot of his opinions are remarkably similar to her own, coincidentally, and she finds herself bookmarking a few of the articles he shared to read after.

He’s  _ smart,  _ and definitely kind of cute, and this is the kind of content that would make her Facebook experience all the more better, really.

She sends him a friend request before she can overthink it, logging off immediately after. There’s only so much Facebook she can take in a day, anyway.

 

+

The next time she goes on Facebook, it’s two days after the election.

Clarke’s not sure what possesses her to do it- maybe it’s a sick, perverse need to see how everyone else is taking the news, or maybe she’s just raring for a fight- but she finds herself booting up the app anyway, phone cradled in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.

It’s a testament to her good taste, she thinks, that most of the people on her timeline are rightfully indignant or devastated over the results. There are a rare few that insist on spewing their bullshit positivity everywhere (“ _ guys, I don’t think it’s gonna be as bad as it is!” “let’s give him a chance!” _ ) whom she immediately blocks before continuing down her timeline, liking and commenting as she sees fit.

She’s a little misty-eyed by the time she gets to Raven’s rant on the stupidity of the electoral college, so it doesn’t really register that Kyle Wick has commented on the post until the notification actually floats up on her screen.

Wincing, she jabs at it, pulling up the post once more.

It’s exactly what she expected of him, to be entirely honest. There’s nothing more to it except the hashtag _ #TrumpTrain _ , accompanied by a string of emojis that she can’t bring herself to make out. The intent behind the message is clear enough as it is anyway, no explanation required.

Her fingers hit at the Reply button before she can think out a proper response, already tapping at the keys furiously.

  
  


**Clarke Griffin:** You know that we already think that you’re a racist, homophobic and misogynistic piece of trash, right? You don’t exactly have to prove it to us or anything, Kyle _.  _ We get it. It’s not surprising that you voted for someone who is literally the human epitome of all your shitty ass values. Now get off my friend’s eloquent and well-written piece on the current political climate. It’s an eyesore. 

 

She reports him after, mostly because she’s vindictive like that. Fucking asshole. 

Sighing, Clarke settles back in her seat. There’s a part of her that’s tempted to do this all day, really; to stay curled in her chair with her afghan draped around her shoulders and a mug of coffee in hand while she mourns the death of good old common sense,  _ but _ . There’s work and errands and things to tend to, so she gets up and gets dressed, grumbling the entire time, brewing a second cup of coffee just to get herself motivated.

Her phone thrills with a notification just as she gets the water boiling, and she swears under her breath, wipes the remnants of the coffee grounds on her sweatpants before grabbing at it.

Surprisingly enough, they’re all from Facebook.

The first few ones are simply likes from the post where she called Wick out, with the next few being subsequent comments showing their support. There’s a bunch of people she doesn’t recognize, but most of them are their mutual friends, like Monty and Jasper and —

She pauses, has to scroll back up to make sure she’s not seeing things.

  
  


**Bellamy Blake** likes your comment.

**Bellamy Blake** mentioned you in a comment.

  
  


There’s no reason for her to be  _ nervous,  _ or anything. Technically, she’s the one who sent in a friend request. Still, her stomach gives a flutter of sorts as she waits for the page to load, her fingers tapping out an impatient beat against her thigh. 

He’s friends with Raven, she realizes, when the page finally loads. It’s probably how he found her in the first place. And as it turns out, he liked the original post followed by her comment; his own just a few places down from hers.

  
  


**@Clarke Griffin:** Couldn’t have said it better myself, tbh. 

 

Swallowing, she likes the comment, types out a hasty,  _ thanks for the support  _ before sending it off, pocketing her phone quickly after. 

(Look, Clarke will  _ not  _ dwell on this. She will  _ not  _ get flustered just because a possibly cute guy on Facebook apparently shares her views on what constitutes a terrible person.)

Ten minutes later, her phone gives a short, irritated buzz; startling her enough that she jumps.

Biting at the inside of her cheek, she allows herself a quick peek.

  
  


**Friend request from Bellamy Blake.**

  
  


Smiling a little to herself, she hits accept before ducking out of the door, suddenly filled with the strange urge to whistle her way to work.

 

+

It’s hard to remain unaware of him after, with him constantly popping up on her feed.

Still, it’s exactly the kind of content that Clarke’s into so she’s can’t really complain. Most of the time it’s his thoughts or opinions on pretty much everything- the latest book to movie adaptation, environmental issues,  _ avocados.  _ He’s hardly the type to be ambivalent about _ anything,  _ really, so she has to say that she’s pleasantly surprised by how much they agree on things.

(She tells him as much by hitting the Like button on those posts. It’s a very well-curated collection of likes, okay?)

Occasionally he gets tagged in a photo from one of his friends, which really serves as a unfair reminder of sorts that he’s not just smart, but  _ cute,  _ too. All mussed hair and bright smiles and  _ muscles  _ straining obscenely through his shirt. She’s not really sure what the protocol is when it comes stuff like this- especially since they don’t know each other personally- so she just settles for liking them instead. (It’s the safest approach when it comes to this whole debacle, at this point.)

The highlight of her entire Facebook experience is  _ definitely _ when he gets all heated up and mad, though.

It’s a little weird when she stops to consider it, but there’s just something inherently satisfying (and hilarious) when it comes to watching him fight assholes on the Internet. Granted, it’s probably because they’re usually on the same wavelength on these matters, though she suspects that a lot of it has to do with how effectively and efficiently he shuts down said assholes. There’s a lot to be admired from someone who can succinctly get his point across without stooping to their level of petty name-calling and obscenities.

Which is a skill she could really use at this point, considering how Finn Collins won’t stop cluttering her wall with his _inane, irrelevant_ opinions.

“He’s just trying to get your attention,” Raven points out, rolling her eyes. “It’s his schtick, you know? Just ignore him and he’ll go away.”

“I  _ can’t _ ,” Clarke huffs, taking a vicious bite from her biscotti. “Not when he’s insisting that reverse racism is real.”

The snort that Raven gives is so loud that it earns them numerous stares. “Typical.”

“I mean, yeah.” She admits, sliding her thumb along the rim of her cup. “But it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t explain why I think he’s wrong.  _ Respectfully. _ ” She hastens to add, at Raven’s growing smile.

Giving an exaggerated flutter of her lashes, she cocks her chin, smiling- the  _ absolute _ picture of innocence. “Just like how you did with Wick?”

Clarke scowls, kicking at her ankle. “That was an exception and you know it.”

“You were  _ livid, _ ” Raven says approvingly, tapping the excess sugar off her spoon none-too-carefully. “Though, I think I would have been as mad as you if I didn’t know that he was doing it just to get a rise out of me.”

It’s her turn to snort this time, the sound dropping off into a groan when her phone gives another impatient buzz. “Seriously?” She grumbles, tapping at the screen to boot up the app. “This guy can’t even give me five minutes to compose a well articulated, impassioned—”

She pauses in the midst of her tirade, tension dropping off her shoulders almost instantaneously. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Oh.” She echoes, turning her phone face-down and placing it back onto the table. “As in,  _ oh _ , that’s settled.”

Raven’s brows inch up to her hairline, eyes widening comically. “That’s it? No explanation to the end of this thrilling saga?”

She makes a noncommittal noise at that, ripping her biscotti into smaller, bite-sized chunks. It’s downright impossible to avoid Raven’s keen gaze at times, but she’s damn well trying her hardest. “A friend intervened.” She hedges, popping one of the cubes in her mouth.

“Informative.” She squints, before reaching for her phone that she abandoned by the side of the table. “But you do know that I can always find out for myself, right?”

“I don’t see why you would want to considering how  _ irrelevant  _ this all is.” Clarke insists stubbornly.

“The way your voice gets all high and squeaky begs to differ,” Raven informs her, already tapping away at her screen. Her expression goes from curious to incredulous all at once, reeling backwards, “Hold on— wait— you’re  _ friends  _ with Bellamy Blake?”

Her first instinct is to deny it completely, of course, but she forces the words back before they can leave her lips. Swallowing, she thrusts her hand out instead, wiggling her fingers impatiently. “Okay, it’s official. I’m cutting you off.”

“Because I asked you if you were friends with Bellamy Blake?” Raven laughs, ducking out of the way easily, her expression going sly instead. “Wait a minute, do you—”

“No!” Clarke hisses, a knee-jerk reaction considering the expression on Raven’s face. “Okay,” she goes, after she’s managed to compose herself to some degree, “so I  _ may _ have sent him a friend request after Octavia’s whole swimsuit debacle.”

“Swimsuit Gate.” She replies, mock-solemn, shoulders jerking upwards in a easy shrug. “So? What’s the big deal?”

It’s Clarke’s turn to shrug now; a poor imitation of Raven’s considering the lack of nonchalance in hers. “There really isn’t,” she points out haltingly, mind scrambling for a quick change in subject, “ _ anyway _ , we’re splitting the bill, right?”

Raven makes a absent noise of assent at that, her attention already back on her phone at hand. “Oh god,” she announces, wincing, “you guys like all of each other’s dorky posts. That’s— you guys are just enabling each other. I can’t figure out if this is sweet or terrifying.”

“They’re not  _ dorky _ .” She counters, instinctive. Then, at her smug, pointed smile, “Fine, maybe the one on cross-stitching is, a  _ little _ .”

“I applaud you for your honesty.” She goes, throwing in a small, sweeping bow to boot; breaking off into a laugh when Clarke swats at her shoulder. “Seriously, though. I can’t believe I never thought of setting you guys up before.”

Her cheeks flood with color at that, involuntary. “ _ Raven _ .”

“What?” She asks, clearly amused. “More power to you, in fact. I’m pretty sure I’ve muted most of his posts on my timeline.”

“Cute.” Clarke manages, wiping at her sweaty palms surreptitiously. The thought of actually  _ meeting  _ him, face-to-face, fills her with a kind of anxiety and anticipation that makes it hard to breathe. “Look, I don’t want you setting me up or anything, okay? I’m comfortable with,” she gives a little flourish of her hands, gesturing wildly over at the phone, “ _ this.  _ I don’t  _ want  _ to get to know him, or have one-on-one conversations. I’m content with having a stupid, pathetic crush on him that will lead nowhere.”

_ Especially considering the state of all my previous relationships,  _ she doesn’t say, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn’t need to, if the way Raven’s gaze softens imperceptibly is any indication.

There’s a lengthy, awkward beat at that, before Raven finally breaks the silence, her voice mild, “Well, at least you admitted that you  _ do  _ have a crush on him. Hence the overreaction.”

Rather than dignify that with a response, she opts for poking her tongue out childishly instead; busies herself with opening up the app once more and hitting the Like button to Bellamy’s response, throwing in a string of emojis for good measure.

 

+

Clarke is inherently not a superstitious sort of person, really, which is what makes the situation she’s in even _worse_. 

The first thing she does, of course, is call Raven.

“Did you  _ tell  _ him?” She blurts out, the second the dial tone gives way her voice. “Oh my god, Rae. I’m going to  _ kill  _ you.”

She makes a sound of protest of that; the noise slightly muffled coursing down the line. “Wait, what? What did I supposedly do now?”

“I’m—” she gives a helpless shrug of her shoulders, fingers still drumming uselessly against her keyboard. “I don’t even know what to make of this. I haven’t even  _ opened _ it yet, because I’m convinced that it’s going to be something bad.”

“You know,” Raven muses, dry, “some context to this entire situation would be great.”

Poising her mouse over it, she pauses, swallowing hard. “I got a direct message. From  _ Bellamy _ .”

The silence on Raven’s end feels pointed, somehow. “Houston,” she deadpans, “I still don’t see the problem here.”

“It’s not a  _ problem,  _ per se,” she bleats, sneaking another peek at the blinking message icon. “But the timing is just— really coincidental, don’t you think? You didn’t say anything to him about it, did you?”

That gets a sigh out of her, patient more than anything. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” she points out, blunt. “Not when you explicitly told me not to.”

She can feel herself deflate at that, sagging back into the chair. “Yeah, I know. I’m just freaking out and being completely irrational about this.”

“Not entirely.” Raven goes, because she’s loyal like that. “I think you should just rip off the bandaid and see what it is, you know? Who knows—” her voice dips at that, punctuated by a crackly burst of static before coming back into focus once more, “—maybe he was just infected by a spambot.”

“Here’s to hoping.” She mutters, glaring over at the taunting  _ 1  _ hovering by her messages. “Yanking it off now. I’ll keep you posted?”

“You better.”

Jabbing at her phone screen with her thumb, she eases it back on her desk clumsily, reaching over to open up the message before she could lose her nerve.

Her first thought, stupidly, is  _ it’s not a spambot message _ .

It’s a link to a Goodreads page, actually, followed by a line of text telling her that it seemed like the type of thing she’d appreciate. It’s _ breezy _ . Casual. Definitely not something to freak out over, she reminds herself, biting back the wide,  _ stupid  _ smile threatening to show on her face.

Exhaling gustily, she wiggles the tension out of her fingers, hits the enter button.

  
  


**Clarke Griffin:** That’s one of my favorites, actually. I’m a total sucker of retellings of the classics. Alice in Wonderland but with crime lords? 100% up my alley. 

**Clarke Griffin:** Not sure if you’ve read it, but if you haven’t, you should definitely give it a shot.

  
  


She’s not expecting him to reply right away, which explains why she nearly falls right off her chair when her laptop gives a little chirp; the sound echoing through the quiet of the room. 

Bracing herself, she opens up the message thread once more.

  
  


**Bellamy Blake:** I just read it, and I  _ need  _ to talk to someone about how amazing and disturbing it is.

**Bellamy Blake:** god, that ENDING

…  _ bellamy blake is typing _

 

Her smile has grown to a full-blown grin, at this point, despite her best intentions to stay cool. Shaking her head ruefully, she gives a small laugh, taps out:  _ I’m listening.  _

 

+

It’s easy to fall into a friendship of sorts with him, after that. 

Strangely enough, she finds herself bickering with him more often than not despite their supposed similarities. Sure, they read the same books and like the same art and share the same political opinions, but when it comes down to it, they are, inherently, two very different people. He’s passion and fire and stubborn determination to her cool-headed logic; emotions and feelings to her carefully laid out facts. They spoke the same language, ultimately. Just in different pentameters.

_ Clearly,  _ Bellamy writes, when she tells him that,  _ I’m iambic and you’re dactylic. _

(Raven makes a disgusted noise when she spies the message from over her shoulder, giving a vehement shake of her head. “God, you nerds really deserve each other.”)

And when they’re not arguing or discussing whatever topic at hand that happens to cross their minds, they talk about themselves. Their lives. She likes those little moments best, files them away to think about on bad days. He hates coffee, but likes chocolate. His dream job was to be an archivist, or a librarian, à la Evie from The Mummy. He’d like to get into comic books, but he’s not sure where to start.

They’re  _ friends,  _ in all sense of the word.

(Well, except for when he gets tagged by Miller in their post-gym photos, all sweaty and dishevelled and shirtless. It’s hard to keep her thoughts purely platonic and friendship-like when he has  _ arms  _ like that.)

Still, Clarke has to admit that they have a good thing going. It feels natural, at this point, to wake up every other day with a new message from him. They talk throughout the day, sending each other memes and or quality content that they think the other might be interested in depending on the hour. She even gets the rare selfie, from time to time, which she dutifully saves in her phone mostly because it’s something that  _ friends  _ do. They have photos of each other on their phones, right? Just in case the other goes missing, or something, and flyers are needed. Clarke’s being a responsible friend, really.

It’s a good system, mostly. One that she’d like to  _ stick  _ to.

It’s why she hesitates when her phone buzzes with a text from Raven on their supposed girl’s night out; a whole string of exclamation marks that remains deceptively cryptic until a follow-up text arrives.

  
  


**Raven Reyes:** Guess who I bumped into at the bar

**Raven Reyes:** OCTAVIA BLAKE

[ _ image _ ] 

**Raven Reyes:** oh and guess who else is here

**Raven Reyes:** you’ll be very excited to know that sOMEONE ELSE IS HERE TOO

[ _ image _ ] 

 

The picture is a blur of colors, barely recognizable if it wasn’t for his rumpled curls, his face turned slightly away from the camera. The slightest glint of teeth under the unflattering fluorescent lights. 

Still, Bellamy Blake _ is _ pretty hard to miss.  

Blinking, Clarke wipes at her phone screen with the heel of her hand. Nope. Still there. He’s even wearing one of the few button downs that he owns, something she learned during one of their many discussions on the necessity of formal wear. (Bellamy: there is none, Clarke: depends on the circumstance.)

_ Uh,  _ she taps out, nervously sneaking a glance over at her reflection,  _ it’s not going to be weird if I show up, right? _

The response she gets is instantaneous.

  
  


**Raven Reyes:** NO 

**Raven Reyes:** we’re all FRIENDS now, clarke

**Raven Reyes:** now get your cute little butt over here!!!

  
  


It’s hard to argue with that, though she does find herself deliberating if she should give Bellamy a head’s up in the cab on the way to the bar. The last time they talked, she  _ did  _ mention that she’d be out for drinks tonight, though she didn’t give any specifics. Raven could forget to mention that she’s coming over, and he’ll be totally blindsided when she shows up—

It all kind of goes out of her head when she actually  _ sees  _ him.

He’s a little shorter than she thought he would be, but  _ broader,  _ too. All hard lines and sharp corners, but belied by the softness of his smile, the way his hair curls sweetly over his ears. It’s a lot to take in, hovering by the door, and for a second, she’s almost tempted to hightail it back to her cab.

Of course, that’s the exact moment when he spots her; his mouth dropping open to gape, surprise evident.

She manages a awkward wave, feet moving forward- and towards  _ him _ \- of their own accord. There’s only a split second of hesitation on his part before he’s returning her smile; weaving his way through the crowd to meet her in the middle.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Bellamy teases at her approach, pitching forward carefully on the balls of his feet so she could hear him through the din.

She scoffs, dropping her chin slightly so she could hide her smile behind the curtain of her hair. “Yeah, well. You’re kind of a surprise for me, too.”

“A good surprise, hopefully.” He probes, lips lifting into a crooked smile.

Her stupid, traitorous heart gives a loud  _ thump  _ at that, and she shifts her weight onto her other foot, planting herself firmly on the ground. “Depends,” she manages, working to keep her voice prim. “Are you going to yell at me again for not having watched any of the Stars Wars movies?”

That gets a laugh out of him, bright and sudden and  _ happy _ . “Depends on if you start mixing it up with Star Trek,  _ again _ .”

She scowls, swats at his elbow. “That was one time!”

“One time too many.” He agrees, grinning. Then, jerking his chin over at the bar, “I take it that you want a drink?”

“Please.”

It’s an effort, squeezing through the crowd to get to bar- made easier by the press of his hand against her back, steering her carefully. It’s cordial, polite more than anything, but she finds herself relishing in his touch anyway. It grounds her, lets her wrap her head around the fact that he’s actually  _ here;  _ that this is actually  _ happening. _

She wiggles closer to him as the horde presses in on them, has to raise her voice to tell him, “A beer would be good!”

He shoots her a look at that, wry. “One of your unnecessarily fancy craft ones, or just a Corona with a lime?”

“You know, you’ll be eating your words when you actually try one of my unnecessarily fancy craft beers.” She sniffs, pretending to be offended. “But then again, this is coming from someone who thinks a Kronenbourg is overkill.”

“Because it  _ is _ ,” he insists, shaking his head. “They serve them with fucking  _ peanuts  _ at the bar on 49th Street.”

“You’re going to the wrong bars.” She tells him, handing over a wad of bills before swiping the open bottle off the counter and taking a sip. “Trust me, I’ll bring a bottle for you from my stash next time. It’s a life-changing experience.”

He looks over at her then, the expression on his face unreadable, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “I’m counting on it.”

“Yeah, you better.” She mutters, hiding her smile into her beer.

The rest of the night passes by in the same relative fashion: all bickering and laughter and cheap shots that tastes of too much vodka. No one gets truly,  _ really  _ drunk, but it’s still amusing to watch anyway- with Raven bursting into laughter at every little thing and Octavia swaying on the spot; her hands going to Clarke’s hair as she twists them into a series of intricate braids, and  _ did Clarke know that she has the best, like, the nicest, hair ever? _

Bellamy is a lot more subdued, but his eyes are bright when she glances over at him.

“What?” She laughs, suddenly self-conscious with the way he’s looking at her.

His grin only grows wider, gaze shifting to the top of her head. “Nice hair,” he goes, conversational; innocent in a way that suggests it looks  _ anything  _ but nice.

She gives a mock-offended scoff, splaying her hand over her chest. “It’s a braided  _ crown,  _ Bellamy. It’s not just nice, it’s downright majestic.”

“Sorry, Princess.” He says, lips twitching with the effort of keeping a straight face. “I didn’t know it was supposed to stick up all over the place like this. My bad.”

“It’s  _ artfully  _ messy!”

“Oh, definitely.” He deadpans, reaching over to tuck a loose strand behind her ear. She shivers, and it’s a testament to her willpower that she doesn’t lean into his touch at that. “So, hey, just checking,” he goes, deliberately nonchalant, “you’re only tipsy and are still capable of making sound decisions, right?”

Narrowing her eyes over at him, she takes another sip of beer. “Is this the part where you secretly try to induct me into a cult?”

“No.” He says, with a furrow of his brow. “Though I am curious as to what kind of cult you think I’ll be a part of.”

“ _ Bellamy _ .”

“Okay, okay.” He grumbles, fiddling with the label of his bottle. It’s a uncharacteristically nervous gesture on him, and it makes her smile, for some reason. “So, I just got my phone bill yesterday.”

She pats at his shoulder, the motion comforting. “Scintillating stuff.”

That gets a huff out of him, the sound impatient. “And as it turns out, my data usage fee this month is pretty much through the roof.”

“Uh, Houston.” She shrugs, squinting. “I’m still lost.”

“Uh, Houston.” He mimics, in a piss poor approximation of her voice. “I don’t know about you, but Facebook takes up a considerable amount of data for me. Especially when we decide to discuss the origins of pepe the frog and or any other quality memes.”

“Oh.” She says, realization dawning. “ _ Oh _ .”

“Yeah,” Bellamy swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips, fingers twitching restlessly around the neck of his beer. “I mean, logically— from, the most practical viewpoint—”

“You’re right.” She interrupts, flushing a little when he arches a brow at her hastiness. “If you didn’t bring it up, I was going to anyway.”

Wordlessly, she slides her phone over the table, watches as he keys his details in.

“Just so you know,” she tells him, when he hands over his phone, “I’m going to save my name as Your Highness and Overlord, Clarke Griffin.”

“Perfect.” He laughs, clinking his bottle against hers.

 

+

**Your Highness and Overlord Clarke Griffin:** I’m never going drinking with you again

**Your Highness and Overlord Clarke Griffin:** Tequila is a good idea, u said

**Your Highness and Overlord Clarke Griffin:** YOU’RE NOT GONNA THROW UP FROM TEQUILA, U SAID

 

…  _ belLAMEY blake is typing _

 

**BelLAMEy Blake:** G’morning to you too, Princess.

 

+

As it turns out, texting Bellamy isn’t all that much different from their interactions on Facebook before. 

(It’s still a daily occurrence, and they talk about the same things, mostly. Well, with the notable exception that she now gets to send him the eggplant emoji whenever he’s being a real  _ dick _ , but technicalities _. _ )

The only  _ actual  _ difference, she supposes, is that they’re hanging out a lot more.

It starts because no one else wants to go for an exhibition on space flights. Octavia cites various work reasons for her no-show, and Raven claims to already know everything that there is about NASA, so. They spend a few hours walking through room after room of rockets and spaceships and stars, heads bent close together so they could share a pair of headphones during the audio part of the tour.

It’s  _ nice _ , despite how her pulse picks up whenever he so much as brushes up against her arm.

They go for tacos the next time, gelato after; falling into a routine of seeing each other without even  _ trying. _

(It’s strange, sometimes, when she stops to think about how effortless and natural their friendship is; how it feels like the most normal thing in the world to stop by his office to take a nap or for him to drop by her apartment just so he could grade papers. Intimacy is easy, for them. Quiet and sneaking through the cracks.)

“I don’t get it.” Raven announces, after she catches her placing a pizza order to be sent over to Bellamy’s. “You guys have been hanging out for months now and you  _ still  _ haven’t banged yet?” She pulls a face at that, grimacing. “Tragedy.”

Glaring, she kicks at her ankle in response. “Did I  _ ask _ ?”

Raven ignores that pointedly; gives a long-suffering, weary sigh instead. “Tell me you’ve seen him shirtless, at least.”

“In what scenario would it be realistic for me to see him shirtless?”

“Swimming,” she answers, instantaneous. “Uh, sunbathing. Just  _ bathing.  _ Oh, spilling sauce on his shirt on purpose so he’d have to change in front of you. No, even better: spilling  _ hot  _ coffee over him, so he has to rip his shirt off right in front of you.”

Groaning, Clarke rubs at her face surreptitiously,  _ hating _ how her cheeks heat automatically at the thought of it. “God. Have I ever mentioned that you’d probably make a really great evil mastermind?”

“Numerous times.” Raven beams, tapping her nails against the countertop for emphasis. Her smile drops off into a frown when she reaches for her coat, though, looping her scarf around her neck. “Wait— you’re not heading over to Bellamy’s now, are you? Because Monty is dropping over in a bit. You should say hi.”

“Uh,” she pauses, “yes, but that’s because I  _ have  _ to. The pizzas are already on their way, and I have to sign them off, and…” She trails off at Raven’s skeptical expression, her arched brow. “Fine,” Clarke relents, huffing. “It’s trivia and margarita night, okay? I don’t want to miss it.”

She shakes her head at that, eyes rolling skyward. “Just admit that you’re  _ way _ more excited at the prospect of seeing Blake elder already, jeez.”

“Yeah, you’ve wholly missed my point that it’s trivia and margarita night.”

Still, she feels guilty enough that she lingers until Monty arrives, giving him a big hug before heading out. Knowing Bellamy, he’ll just eat the pineapple off the pizzas and watch documentaries until she gets there anyway.

“Did you eat all the pineapples?” She asks, the second he gets the door.

“I’d be doing you a favor if I did.” He reminds her, slumping lazily against the door frame; his lips curving into a smile when she fails to duck past him and through the doorway.

Scowling, she pokes at his ribs, chokes back a laugh when he gives a little yelp of surprise. “Okay, fine, so I’m a little late.” She wheedles, feinting to the left in a valiant attempt to duck past him. He doesn’t even budge, just continues looming over her and  _ smirking,  _ like the  _ jerk  _ that he is. “Can I just—” she folds her arms across her chest, resisting the temptation to stomp her foot. “Can I please come in now?”

“The pizza’s probably gone cold now.” He goes, mock-wounded. “Of all nights, Clarke. You just  _ had  _ to be late for the most important, the most titular,  _ the _ —”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.” She mutters, nudging at his shoulder with her forehead. “I’m sorry, alright? Raven held me back.”

That gets his attention, at least. “Why?” He asks, with a furrow of his brow. “Did she blow something up again? Because I’ve been telling her to keep her shit at the workshop, but Jasper tells me that she just dumps them all over her room.”

“No, nothing like that.” She goes, hasty, before he can go on a hour-length rant on how their apartment is pretty much a fire hazard. “I think she just wanted to spend some time with me and Monty? I haven’t been around as much.”

His frown deepens at that, expression going quizzical. “Does she— does she think that we’re spending too much time together?”

“Not in those—”

“I just didn’t think she’d be interested,” he goes, sullen. “And it’s not like she  _ likes  _ trivia, or anything. Besides, it’s our—” his mouth clicks shut with a audible snap at that, cheeks reddening, and she can’t help the stupid grin that spreads across her face at that.

(It’s gratifying, she thinks, to be on the same page as him on this; to know that he  _ likes  _ spending time with her as much as she does.)

“Yeah,” she says, mostly to spare him from any further awkwardness. “It’s okay. I’ll ask her if she wants to hang out at the bar this weekend.”

He shrugs, deliberately casual, palm going back to rub at his neck. “Good.”

“Good.” She echoes. Then, cocking her chin over at him in the best doe-eyed, innocent head tilt that she could muster, “So, now that you’ve pretty much admitted that I’m your  _ favorite  _ person to hang out with, can you let me in?”

“God,” he grumbles, shifting to the side. “You’re such an obnoxious brat.

(She can’t help but notice that he didn’t exactly  _ deny  _ it, though.)

Giving an exaggerated, sweeping bow, she crosses the threshold—

Only for him to swoop her up in his arms, throwing her over his shoulder and racing down the hallway amidst her shrieks; his delighted laugh echoing in her ears for hours after.

 

+

She pitches the idea to Raven the very next day- mostly to distract herself from the fact that she stupidly agreed to  _ join  _ her on her morning run. 

“Don’t talk,” she orders, patting at her back sympathetically while Clarke tries valiantly to catch her breath, “because I never got the hang of the heimlich maneuver, so I can’t help you if you start choking on your breath.”

The noise she makes is somewhere between a breathless laugh and a scoff. “ _ Really  _ helpful of you, Rae.”

“I aim to please.” She goes, innocent, before handing over her bottle of water. “Okay, now. Tell me again.”

Wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand, she caps the bottle, sets it down against her knee. “The bar,” she manages, taking another deep breath. “This weekend. Drinks and darts and deep seated regrets the day after.”

Raven considers this, brow furrowed. “Normally I’ll be all over that,” she starts, dabbing at her face with a towel. “But Luna’s coming back this weekend, and I thought we could have a welcome-home-soiree sort of thing for her.”

Clarke blinks, mulling over the words. “Luna?”

“Yeah.” She swallows, averting her gaze hastily. “I thought it would be nice, since we haven’t seen her in a while. Plus, I know for a fact that Lincoln’s dying to see her.”

And in that second, it all makes sense: how badly Raven had handled the news of Luna going on an exchange programme, the way she flushed when Clarke had mentioned in passing about how Luna had asked about her—

“Lincoln or  _ you _ ?” She teases, butting her elbow against ribs.

That prompts a scowl from Raven, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Shut up,” she grouses, ponytail swinging as she picks up the pace. “I’ll get the booze, and you can be in charge of the invites.”

Laughing, Clarke breaks into a light jog, has to scramble a little to keep up, “How about, I’ll be in charge of everyone else’s invites, and  _ you  _ be in charge of Luna’s?”

“Whatever, I don’t  _ care _ .” Raven declares, petulant, and with one last scathing look thrown over her shoulder, she adds, “Make sure to invite your  _ boyfriend _ .”

“Not my boyfriend!” She calls out to her receding back, instinctive, before giving up and slowing to a stop completely.

(In hindsight, maybe she’s not the only one who’s in denial.)

 

+

It’s a good thing that their friends’ idea of a fun party involves just pizza, booze and Netflix, because that’s pretty much  _ all  _ they have going for them right now. 

Still, Clarke will admit that she’s having a good time.

Monty brought his flashy, way-too-expensive speakers, and Lincoln has cards and there’s an overwhelming amount of booze lined up on the counter, courtesy of Raven. She’s warm and tipsy and there’s  _ cake  _ (Maya’s handiwork, to be eaten straight off the plate) so, yeah.

Everything is distinctly and definitely peachy, especially after Bellamy walks through the door.

“I have all the stuff for s’mores,” he says, as a way of greeting. “I know you said you guys already have marshmallows, but I was thinking about the whole marshmallow to cracker ratio and—  _ oof _ .”

She laughs at the sharp intake of breath on his part, arms dangling awkwardly by his sides as she nuzzles her face into the dip of his neck; his skin sun-warm and smelling of mint and musk and  _ Bellamy. _

“Hi,” she grins, squeezing at his shoulder. “ _ Hi.  _ I can’t believe you’re here.”

He hesitates, just for a moment, before his arms go around her torso, squeezing back with equal fervor. “I told you I’d make it.” He rasps, voice muffled slightly in her hair. “ _ And  _ that I’d come gracing gifts.”

Clarke pulls away slightly, her nose bumping up against his chin lightly. “Your presence is a gift.” She tells him, mock-solemn, though it’s a little hard to mask the sincerity in her voice.

That gets a laugh out of him, full-bodied and warm. “God, how  _ drunk _ are you?”

“I’m good.” She tells him, tapping at the cluster of freckles directly under his eye. “Do you want cake? You should have cake.”

She’s already disentangling herself from him when she feels his lips against her forehead, soft and brief and sweet. Instinctively, she closes her eyes, swaying closer to him.

“Cake sounds good.” He murmurs, palms latching onto her arms and holding her steady. Then, teasingly, “Can you make it to the kitchen or am I going to have to throw you over my shoulder?”

Scoffing, she holds a finger up to his face, wiggles it for emphasis. “I can make it to the kitchen just  _ fine,  _ Bellamy Blake.”

He raises his hands up in surrender at that, grinning. “If you say so.”

“I know so.” She insists, latching onto his wrist and tugging. “C’mon.”

They make it to the largely deserted kitchen without incident, side-stepping the mess on the floor that is Jasper’s attempt at making jelly shots. Swinging herself up on the stool, she grabs at the last paper fork, handing it to him.

“Right off the plate?” He asks, amused, before taking it from her. “You guys are heathens.”

She makes a offended noise at that, seizing the fork from him. “ _ Rude _ .”

“You know, I could just eat using my hands.” He points out, mild, reaching over to swipe at the icing by the side. “It’s not going to make much of a difference at this point anyway.”

Shooting him a dirty look, she sticks the fork back into the cake. “I hate how stupidly convincing you are.”

“Sure,” he says, smug; helping himself to a heaping portion. “I believe you.”

“You should.” She goes, mostly to be difficult, sweeping her finger across the plate and popping it into her mouth. “Shit. This cake was meant for Luna, and I don’t even think she had any.”

He nods at that, brows knitting together. “The guest of honor, right?”

_ Yeah,  _ she wants to say, a hiccup emerging in place instead. “Don’t laugh at me,” she instructs, spotting a half-smile forming rapidly against his lips. “And yes, that’s her. Guest of honor and Raven’s would-be girlfriend.”

“Come again?”

“Her would-be girlfriend,” Clarke repeats, with exaggerated slowness. “As in, Raven has a big fat crush on her, but she’s not doing anything about it. Yet. I don’t know. I might intervene if it gets really, really pathetic.”

(Distantly, she’s aware of a small voice at the back of her head mumbling about  _ pots _ and  _ kettles,  _ but she’s a little too dizzy to try and figure it out.)

That gets a snort out of him. “Intervening in her love life? Really?”

Staring, she makes an exaggerated, twirling motion with her hands; the universal signal for  _ duh.  _ “Is that even a question?”

He pitches forward on his elbows at that, leaning closer. Her breath catches at the movement, suddenly struck by the warmth she can practically feel radiating off his skin, his breath hot against her chin.

“Why not just focus on your own love life?” He points out, wry, cocking his head in question.

Clarke swallows, shifting ever so slightly in her seat. “Don’t have one to speak of,” she manages, feeling a stab of pride at the steadiness of her own voice.

“Huh.” He says, thoughtful. The look in his eyes is inscrutable but paralyzing, all at once; half-lidded and soft, peering through a fan of dark lashes. It makes her want to do something  _ stupid,  _ like reach out and rest her fingers against them.

Her eyes flutter shut when he moves even closer, breath stuttering when his thumb grazes at the corner of her mouth.

“You have icing on your lip.” Bellamy tells her, nonchalant, as if he didn’t just render her legs to jelly just three seconds ago.

“Huh.” She echoes, daring herself to meet his eyes; allowing her thoughts to stray, to wonder if she had the same effect on him as he had on her. “Whoops.”

His thumb is still poised against her lip when she pokes her tongue out, grazing his skin; his responding full-bodied shiver making her laugh delightedly as he stumbles back onto his seat.

“Eat your cake.” Clarke grins, pushing the fork back at him once more, biting at the inside of her cheek to taper her smile.

 

+

  
  


**Octavia Blake added a photo of you.**

**Octavia Blake, Jasper Jordan, and 78 others like this.**

 

**Octavia Blake:** Welcome home party for the one and only,  **@Luna Woods!**

**Jasper Jordan:** hOLY SHIT

**Jasper Jordan:** why did no one tell me that  **@Bellamy Blake** and  **@Clarke Griffin** are dating???

**Monty Green:** dude, shut up

**Jasper Jordan:** I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU GUYS WERE KEEPING IT FROM ME

**Raven Reyes: @Clarke Griffin** is looking awfully comfy in someone’s lap ;))))

**Clarke Griffin:** …. There weren’t any chairs left

**Nathan Miller:** homie there’s literally one right next to me

  
  


+

Clarke is, by far, not a  _ dramatic  _ person, in general. But at this point, she can safely say that the only person who remains oblivious to her feelings about Bellamy Blake  _ is  _ Bellamy Blake. 

It’s the worst.

“Or you could just, you know,” Monty points out, logical as always, “tell him, or something. Just some blue-sky thinking over here.”

Scowling, she pegs at his cheek with a cheeto. “Wow, Monty. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.  _ Amazing _ .” 

“I could tell.” He goes, the corners of his mouth twitching from holding back a laugh. Then, sobering slightly, “But seriously, Clarke. What’s the worse that can happen, anyway? You tell him you like him. If he rejects you, well. You guys can go on with your friendship as if nothing happened. Though I highly doubt that it’s the scenario that’s going to play out.”

Slumping further down her seat, she buries her face in her hands, a groan slipping out. “You don’t know that,” she reminds him, letting her head thump back against the seat rest. “Plus, a revelation of this magnitude could possibly and  _ definitely _ jeopardize our friendship.”

There’s a beat as he considers this; the only sound being the blare of the TV as she flips through the channels.

“So, what?” He says finally, reaching over to nudge at her ankle. “You’re just going to sit there and pine for the rest of your life?”

“Doesn’t seem like all too bad of a prospect.”

“ _ Clarke _ .”

The exasperation in his voice makes her look up, at least; and she can’t help but feel a little guilty from having pulled that out of  _ Monty,  _ of all people. “Sorry,” she says, automatic. “But look, it’s not a big deal, okay? It’s a crush. It’ll go away.”

“A crush.” He repeats, sounding mildly incredulous. “Really? That’s what you think?”

_ Yes,  _ she doesn’t say, the temptation to lie rising in her throat. The word doesn’t make it out of her mouth, though, stays caught between her teeth.

It’s the furthest thing from how she  _ actually _ feels about Bellamy; something she struggled to put into words, despite the clarity of those feelings. It’s waking up and him being the first person she wanted to see. It’s his voice in the back of her head, a constant shadow, carrying him with her wherever she went. It’s knowing the answer instinctively whenever someone mentioned the age-old question about being stranded on a deserted island.

He was her person, as she was his. No one else understood her pieces like he did.

“No,” she admits, rubbing at her face. “That’s not really what I think.”

There’s another lengthy pause- which she suspects has to do with Monty’s shock at her  _ relenting,  _ more than anything- before he recovers. “Well, okay. At least you’ve moved on from the whole denial thing.”

She snorts, a smile twisting at her lips. “That bad?”

“It’s not a cute look on you.” He points out, grinning, twisting defly out of the way when she tosses a pillow at his head. 

 

+

A week later, and Bellamy  _ still  _ hasn’t responded or liked the photo from Luna’s welcome home party. 

Not that Clarke’s _ checking _ , or anything.

Still, she’s antsy and paranoid all day, jumping every time her phone buzzes. It’s Raven, most of the time, and she’s minutes away from sending a truly embarrassing text when her phone gives a trill, lighting up in her palm.

Swallowing, she hits the home button.

  
  


**BelLAMEY Blake:** I know it’s not trivia night but I have a craving for margaritas 

**BelLAMEY Blake:** Wanna come over? 

  
  


Wiping her sweaty palms on her jeans, she texts back a quick affirmative, her knees nearly going weak in relief. Everything’s good. They’re  _ fine.  _

She buys a six pack of his favorite beer for good luck, unlocks the door using the spare key he has hidden under the ceramic frog Octavia made during her pottery stint. The faint smell of grilled chicken and bell peppers wafts over as she makes her way down the hallway, and she finds him in the kitchen, assembling tacos.

Leaning against the door frame, she can’t help but watch him for a while- admiring the flex of muscles under his shirt; the deft, sure way he handles himself- and she flushes, looking away before he can catch her staring.

Clearing her throat, she raps at the door frame. “So, what’s the occasion?”

Startling, Bellamy turns to look over at her, surprise giving away to relief. “Nothing. I was just watching Chef’s Table, and I got hungry.” He tells her, rueful. “Tacos and margaritas seemed ideal.”

“Fancy,” she hums, crossing the room towards him and picking at a chicken cube from the pan. “Extra green peppers for me.”

He scowls, swatting her hand away. “You have to let it  _ soak  _ in the sauces first.”

“I’m hungry!”

“Five more minutes,” he says, giving an exasperated sigh when she pinches at the edge of a taco shell instead. “Just— go pick something to watch on Netflix. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Fine.” Clarke huffs, and mostly because she can’t resist, “The sauce could use more salt, anyway.”

“The sauce is  _ fine _ .”

Biting back a smirk, she ducks out of the kitchen, plops herself on the couch instead. Sure enough, the screen is frozen on a episode of Chef’s Table, the pitcher of margaritas and glasses already set out. Pouring herself a glass, she settles back, boots up Facebook on her phone instead.

There’s nothing all that much interesting on her timeline, just the usual amount of real-life updates and food videos that she loses interest in pretty quickly. Taking a quick peek at the clock, she hits the search bar, summons up Bellamy’s profile instead.

The photo is still the top post on his timeline, has now accumulated a staggering two hundred likes. Frowning, Clarke scans through the likes, looking for his name—

“What are you looking at?”

His breath is hot against her cheek, voice  _ amused,  _ and she nearly jumps out of her skin scrambling away from him.

“Nothing!” She yelps, pressing her phone against her chest. “ _ Jesus,  _ Bell. Did you have to sneak up on me like that?”

“There was no sneaking involved.” He retorts, setting down the platefuls of tacos. “You’re the one being all cagey.”

“Well, you scared me.” She goes, prim, scooting back carefully. “I thought you were still perfecting the sauce.”

He eyes her consideringly at that, brow arched. Then, shrugging, he goes, “It didn’t really need that much work.”

“Oh.” She says, relaxing back into the cushions. “Well, you know what? I think I’ll be the judge—”

The rest of her words dissolves into a shriek when he reaches over to pluck the phone from her grasp, dodging her swipes effortlessly.

“You,” she breathes, grabbing at a pillow and slapping it at his chest, “ _ asshole _ .”

His laugh is bright, fucking  _ delighted _ . “Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad.”

“It’s— it’s not a big deal,” Clarke manages, swallowing; seconds away from lunging back over to grab at it. “You’re going to be really unimpressed when you realize what it is.” 

His smile grows even bigger, if anything. “So I can look at it?”

It’s her turn to scowl now. “I didn’t say  _ that _ .”

His gaze flits over to the screen, the barest of movements, and that’s when she makes her move; leaping forward and knocking the screen out of his hands, a mess of limbs and hair and nails—

She jerks back when his lips brushes up against hers, brief and barely there.

Bellamy flushes bright red, stilling above her. “That’s—” his throat bobs, tongue darting out to wet his lips nervously, “An accident. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She says, blinking, taking him in entirely. Hair mussed and pupils blown and breathing shallow, his gaze roving from the length of her neck to her mouth,  _ lingering.  _ Her body heats in response to it, mouth going dry.

Slowly, she raises herself up on her elbows, drawing closer. He doesn’t move away from her, though she catches the way he breathes in sharply at that.

She breathes his name, once, and that’s when he breaks, pushing forward to kiss her with all of the force of a tidal wave. She responds with equal enthusiasm; refusing to give an inch, delving her fingers under her shirt to explore the expanse of his back, biting at his bottom lip when he twists his hands in her hair.

Groaning into her mouth, he lays her down on the couch, kissing a line down her neck and muffling his laugh into her shoulder. “Jesus, Clarke. Fucking— unbelievable.”

“Thanks.” She grins, pulling him down so she can kiss him again, shuddering when his teeth pulls at her earlobe, “I’ve just— I’ve been wanting to do this for a while now, okay?”

His laugh is immeasurably soft, private. “Same,” he admits, looking a little embarrassed by the admission, fingers coming up to toy with a loose strand of her hair. “I’ve wanted to do that since the bar.”

She can only stare, at that. “That was the  _ first  _ time we met.”

“We’ve been talking for months before that,” he points out, his other hand running up and down her sides. The motion is soothing, familiar. “And I just— You’re my best friend. And I really,  _ really  _ fucking love you.”

“Good thing the feeling is mutual.” She tells him, grinning, leaning forward to nip at the skin of his neck. “If we’re being honest here, I’ve, uhm. I’ve been half in love with you ever since you told Finn to shove it.”

“On Facebook?”

“Facebook.” She confirms, laughing, her hands going to his curls. They’re as soft as they pictured them to be, and she brings them down to his face, stroking at the skin of his cheek. He leans into the touch, smiling, before pressing a kiss to her fingers and she feels as if she could float away with the feeling of it all; dizzying joy and love and excitement.

“Well,” he shrugs, before leaning down to kiss her once more, “turns out it’s good for  _ something,  _ at least.”

(Clarke can’t say she disagrees.)

 

+

 

**Clarke Griffin is in a relationship with Bellamy Blake.**

**Raven Reyes, Monty Green and 329 others like this.**

 

**Raven Reyes:** fuckiNG FINALLY!!!

**Monty Green:** !! congrats, you guys!

**Jasper Jordan:** I WOULD LIKE TO SAY THAT I SAW THIS COMING A MILE AWAY

**Jasper Jordan:** I WAS FIRST MATE ON THE S.S BELLARKE

**Octavia Blake:** I’m so proud that my brother finally got his shit together

**Clarke Griffin:** it was a team effort, actually.  **@Bellamy Blake**

**Bellamy Blake:** <3

**Raven Reyes:** ok that’s enough, get out of here now

**Nathan Miller:** make them stop

**Bellamy Blake:** <333

**Jasper Jordan:** you guyS ARE GROSS!! <3333 (my ship is sAILING, Y’ALL)

**Author's Note:**

> me, putting on a very Important and Official voice: t100 s4 is the s3 we deserve, bYE.


End file.
